


Tonight (I'm Fucking You)

by crowbarwolf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Escort Service, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowbarwolf/pseuds/crowbarwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire: an art student in the morning, accomplished freelance painter during the day, a high-class escort at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight (I'm Fucking You)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh. My. God. I'm sorry, I can't resist myself from not writing this, it's too beautiful to be true, the idea of Grantaire as an escort. Or Blagden as an escort. Imagine. *drools*
> 
> Title is from Enrique Iglesias' song, _Tonight (I'm Fucking You)_. It kinda stuck in my head so, uhm. Ratings my change? Anyway, all mistakes are mine (sorry if there are) but I hope you enjoy?

-

The first time Grantaire met Enjolras was in a crowded Psychology lecture at the beginning of the semester, arguing over the basic instinct of humanity without caring of the hundred-something pair of eyes plus the professor's awestruck face following their banter that literally lasted until the end of the class.

If you asked Jehan, who sat next to Grantaire throughout the entire conversation, he would smile but laugh at you if the word 'love' were to escape past your lips. It was not the word one would associate with their banter; savage, intense, clever were the first few things that came to mind rather than 'love'.

Passionate, heated, hateful were among those words as well.

The second time Grantaire met Enjolras was during a three o'clock riot right in front of the building of the studio he shares with Feuilly, their half-finished sketches on canvases forgotten as the sound of the police's siren echoed down the street then somehow, they were housing eleven students hell-bent on changing the world.

Enjolras, upon looking at him, had instantly recognized him as that asshole he argued with not long ago.

He clapped his hands on Grantaire's shoulders, thanked him in the most sincere yet so very serious way that makes Grantaire feel awkward, then gave him a pamphlet for their meeting that _Grantaire must attend_.

Feuilly, the jerk, kept giving him these _looks_ like he knew something Grantaire didn't, like for example, the erratic beating of his heart and the shy stupid grin he couldn't remove off his face no matter how hard he tried.

Grantaire needed – _needs_ – better friends.

Not Jehan, of course. Grantaire will never survive without Jehan in his life.

Anyway, his conclusion of needing new mentally-stable friends was proven correct five hours later when he met Enjolras for the third time that day at a charity gala Combeferre's family is hosting as Courfeyrac's escort for the night.

Which. Huh. Awkward all around for everybody involved.

Enjolras had looked slightly uncomfortable when Courfeyrac freudian-slipped him that Grantaire was his 'escort' instead of his 'date' that led to a discussion of the difference between an escort and a prostitute. _Of course_ Enjolras is the type of person who thinks 'escort' is just another word for a 'fancy prostitute in a much more decent clothing', of fucking course he is.

Courfeyrac had choked on his drink, trying hard not to laugh, while Grantaire's inner-self curled into a tiny little ball and died slowly and painfully inside.

He charged Courfeyrac triple at the end of the night and locked him out of his own hotel room then proceeded to clean the fridge of its content less than half an hour, because. Yeah.

There goes Grantaire's happily ever after.

-

Jehan is snuggling close to Montparnasse's side on the couch, writing what obviously is his latest poetry down the length of Montparnasse's arm.

The room still smells strongly of sex.

Both of them are thankfully not stark naked though – Jehan wears a pair of black silk boxers a size too large around his waist and Montparnasse, well. Grantaire isn't sure the boy is wearing anything, honestly, but at least he still has his tie around his neck instead of his wrists, so Grantaire counts it as a plus.

Also, it's impossible to tell whether he is actually naked or not since Jehan draping himself all over Montparnasse's naked body is about to cover it, anyway.

"I am burning that couch down." Grantaire announces on his way into the kitchen. "This is the twelfth time I caught both of you having sex on that couch. Adding to the equation where you guys possibly, _definitely_ , have had sex twice as much on that couch when I'm not around, I'd say that the decision have been made."

"Why don't you just sell it?" asks Montparnasse with big curious eyes. "You're desperate enough for money that you're working as a who–"

Jehan, who is Grantaire's partner in crime and also works in the same line of occupation as Grantaire's, bites down on the skin near Montparnasse's nipples that has him hitching his hips up against Jehan's.

"– a _high class escort_ at night. I'm not saying that the couch will help you financially, but at least you will gain some profit out of it. No matter how little." Montparnasse finishes, a sly crooked grin on his face.

It makes him looking like the very personification of sin itself, and Grantaire can understand the appeal, why Jehan had so insistently pursued Montparnasse after the night the agency sent him on the first plane to Russia as Montparnasse's escort; he really, really can.

"Excuse _you_ ," Grantaire scoffs, dignified. "Has it ever occurred to you that I am doing this completely by choice? That I love doing my job because it pays more than you could ever make in a month?"

Montparnasse makes an offended face. "Hey."

"It's actually true," agrees Jehan. "I made forty thousand dollars last night. And no, 'Parnasse, I didn't sleep with him. You know that I don't sleep with any of my clients. Except you, apparently." Jehan sighs, before going back to leaving hickeys on every inch of skin of Montparnasse's jaw.

"... Okay." Montparnasse says, to the part where Jehan didn't sleep with the man who hired him last night. Grantaire narrows his eyes at him.

"You're going to hunt down that and ask for a DNA test aren't you."

" _Yes_. Yes, I'm going to hunt that man down and ask for a DNA test." Montparnasse replies, and doesn't even look apologetic about it. Jehan makes some sort of purring sound against his skin, seemingly eager to get into another round of sex before their class.

Grantaire shakes his head. "You guys are real life Hades and Persephone, I swear to god."

-

Feuilly catches him sneaking into the studio at the last minute with a raised eyebrow and an amused smile that looks good on his face. Grantaire thinks a smile looks good on anyone's face, especially Enjolras'.

When Enjolras smiles he looks a bit shy and beautiful and unsure, but beautiful nonetheless, and Grantaire is reminded of the painting he did of Enjolras the other day, Enjolras as Apollo with Cosette as Artemis at his side, the one that Feuilly is inspecting right now.

Shit.

"I can explain." Grantaire says, waving his hands to gesture at – something – he's not sure; he ends up flailing, nearly toppling the nearest paint cans in return, so he stops.

Real subtle, Grantaire, real subtle. "Uhm."

Feuilly looks more amused by the second. "You don't have to explain anything to me, Grantaire." He says, calmly. "You have a crush. On Enjolras, of all people."

Grantaire frowns. "What's wrong with Enjolras?" he demands.

"Nothing, just that. He's a virgin. Never been kissed. And he told his mother that he's married to Patria at the age of sixteen." At the last words, Feuilly rolls his eyes, which means he's quoting Bahorel again (Feuilly's been quoting Bahorel a lot, lately, Grantaire wonders if there's 'Something' there) with exasperation. "My point is that he's not exactly your type, don't you think?"

"My type is smart and gorgeous," Grantaire says. "And I do not have a crush on Enjolras."

Feuilly doesn't seem convinced. "No?"

"No," Grantaire sighs, dreamily. "I'm _in love_ with Enjolras. There's a difference. You're the artist, Feuilly, you should know things like that."

Feuilly massages his temple in an exaggerated manner, a smile on his lips. "Of all the people you've met. Rich young ladies, sexy older women, handsome young men, rich older young men; no, you've _got_ to fall in love with the most difficult person of them all. Honestly, Grantaire. This is turning into a rom-com TV shows."

Grantaire grumbles. "Rom-com requires _romance_ to be a rom-com. Without it it's just plain cruel sadistic unrequited love comedy. Like. Can you imagine someone like Enjolras liking me? Especially after the whole escort thing with Courfeyrac? _Do you know that he thinks I'm a prostitute, Feuilly_? Do you? It hurts, Feuilly, it hurts. Do coddle me whilst I cry in your capable arms."

-

Courfeyrac has been Grantaire's friend since they met at a summer camp in high school and they fucked on the back seat of Courfeyrac's beautiful amazing Camaro and again in the blissfully warm shower after said fucking was done.

It wasn't their first time, for either of them, but it had been Courfeyrac's first blow job. Grantaire taught him how to do it with his lips, how to cover his teeth, teaching him the entire night until Courfeyrac got the hang of it. He's a quick study and Grantaire is proud every time someone mentions how good Courfeyrac is at giving heads.

Grantaire will never, ever admit this even under torture and the cost of his life: the fact that Courfeyrac is one of his most dearest, oldest, best friends.

Fourth in row after Eponine, Jehan, and Feuilly, because no one puts Eponine second to anyone else, except for Marius who got away with it during the first and second year of high school because he didn't know that Eponine's got a crush on him, or maybe even a little in love with him at the time. Something that Combeferre had rectified around the third day of college, which just, wow.

Anyway; the point is, Courfeyrac is Grantaire's friend and as such, it is necessary for them to meet up over lunch breaks and talk. Well, Courfeyrac talks and Grantaire gives some input and nods at the right time, but that's basically it.

They still meet for lunch if Courfeyrac is mad at Grantaire and vice-versa.

And, since Grantaire is currently angry at Courfeyrac for ruining his one chance at eternal happiness – do mind the sarcasm, please, like _hell_ someone like Enjolras would even want to be with someone like Grantaire, especially if Enjolras thinks Grantaire is a hooker or a prostitute, same difference – Courfeyrac somehow has it in his unstable mind to apologize to him by bringing Enjolras along.

The result, as one may guess, is very awkward.

"Enjolras, this is Grantaire. Um. You know, the guy you argued with on the first day and called astonishingly clever? And the guy whose painting you told Jehan was so gorgeous it's otherworldly?" Courfeyrac asks, tentatively.

Grantaire can feel the impending threat of a very serious headache at the back of his mind.

"He's not all about pretty face and drinking, you know. He never actually drinks that much when he's working with other clients, just with me –"

"Other. Clients." Enjolras enunciates. Eyes narrowing.

This very serious headache will be caused by a very serious head-pounding against the table. Or the wall. The wall looks decidedly more dangerous and easy to get concussed with.

"I don't sleep with my clients, as I've told you many times the night before." Grantaire says, closing his book. "And Courfeyrac should stop talking now if he has any love left for his trachea. I happen to be a very good boxer and a black-belt at martial arts."

"You box?" says Enjolras, blinking in surprise. Grantaire can feel the cold murderous feeling for Courfeyrac in his chest turning gleefully warm at the intrigue expression on Enjolras' face.

"Among many others, yes. If you must know, I am not just a pretty face, nor am I a hooker, a subject of which we've been talked about over too many times. I feel like I should bring this up every now and then before you start imagining me naked." Mouth, stop opening, stop talking, _where is his mouth-to-brain filter when he fucking needs it goddammit_.

Courfeyrac slaps a hand across his face, audibly, and Enjolras turns an interesting shade of red.

"Um." Enjolras says, eloquently.

Grantaire tries to cover his embarrassment with a cough, gesturing for both of them to sit. "Come, come. Jehan told me that you've got some problems with authorities. I have a thing for men who have problems with authorities, but that's a topic for another day. How do you feel about Dickens?"

"Unreadable." Replies Enjolras bluntly and Grantaire grins all teeth.

"Good boy."

It should be a good start for a good friendship, it's the most Grantaire can wish for.

But then somehow the topic turns into the difference between their philosophical views and political views and their views in _every single fucking thing_ including life and humanity and the basic human instinct, and it's their Psychological lecture all over again, only this time there's no bell or time limits to stop them, no professor to stop them or anyone to break them off, except for Courfeyrac who has been rendered useless and is possibly sobbing into the palm of his hands around the time they talk about Immanuel Kant and Karl Marx and John Stuart Mill.

(Grantaire's inner Pocahontas swoons, a little bit, in this case a lot, but it also gets him reaching for the hidden empty wine flask in his pocket.)

Don't even get him started on the topic of Rousseau, because _holy fuck_.

In the end, they get thrown out after Enjolras tries to kill him with the power of The Glare plus The Pout that only results in Grantaire having a very public embarrassing erection in the middle of talking about Stannis Baratheon's character development.

Grantaire thinks, _this is it, he'll never be my friend, he won't even look at me after today_.

The next day, Courfeyrac can't make it, possibly getting held back in school for a quick fuck with the teacher, and Enjolras texts Grantaire for lunch.

Without thinking, Grantaire replies a quick 'OK' and they meet in front of the same place at the same time and Enjolras is grinning at him so hard and so beautiful, Grantaire does the stupidest thing possible: he hugs Enjolras and pets his face then his curls and says, very loudly, _Bless your face_.

Enjolras blinks.

Grantaire runs.

-

"R," Bahorel says, in a rush, taking a seat in front of Grantaire. "I need you."

Grantaire blinks, taking a moment to set his cup of coffee safe distance away from Bahorel's large twitching hands.

It's five o'clock in the afternoon, and Grantaire is sulking on his seat in this little isolated cafe hidden somewhere in the shady part of the city after that lunch thing with Enjolras, but Bahorel still somehow able to find him. Damn the man.

"As much as I would love to. _Be needed_. By you, Bahorel, because I must admit, you've got quite the nice arms. And thighs. Jesus, how are those thighs even real? I bet you ride a lot of motorcycles. Or models. Russian models with their cute accent and their everything. Or a certain red-headed painter which happens to be _my best friend_. And I am not that kind of boy. The kind of boy who sleeps with his best friend's boyfriend –"

"What?" Bahorel squeaks – he _squeaks_ , Christ fuck what – attracting the attention of everyone around. "I'm not going to sleep with you." He says, bluntly. Loudly.

Grantaire pouts and makes a face. "Wow, way to blow a guy's ego, man. I mean. Not that it's going to do anything to my ego, 'cause, you know, I'm an escort. I am paid for being pretty. Not for my body. At least not in the way Enjolras thinks it is. Can you please tell Enjolras that the next time you see him?"

"You're going to see Enjolras the next time I see him too," Bahorel points out. And. Yeah, he's going to see Enjolras again after this, even if it kills him, at the meeting. The meeting he has been coming into every time for the past few weeks, the meeting that discusses The Cause Grantaire doesn't believe in.

Bahorel starts waving his hands like a crazy, so Grantaire calls for the waitress to clean his table immediately before he starts breaking things. "Anyway. I need you to come with me to this thing my rich as fuck uncle sort of hosting tonight. Jehan can't since Montparnasse is going to be there as well. Thus. I need you."

There are a lot of things Grantaire can say to that, like the fact that Grantaire is Bahorel's last resort deeply wounds him, and whether or not Bahorel is adopted by his parents, because a wearing a pair of worn jeans and ripped white shirt does not sign 'WEALTH' in Grantaire's personal opinion, even if it's only the uncle.

What comes out of his mouth, instead:

"How much you've got there in your pockets?"

It's Bahorel's turn to blink as he checks the content of his pockets, then the money in his wallet. "Uh, four hundred bucks? Will that be enough?" he's frowning down at his wallet like it has personally offended him by not having more than four hundred bucks. It's kind of adorable.

"It's half the money I usually make, but that's okay. I give discounts for friends." Grantaire wipes the metaphorical tears pooling on the corner of his eyes with his metaphorical handkerchief, sniffing. "You should've seen how much I've let Courfeyrac robbed me off my money. This means you still owe me a hundred bucks, by the way."

"I've seen _you_ robbing Courfeyrac off his money," says Bahorel. "Can the amount of free drinks my uncle is going to grace you with pay off that debt?"

Bahorel is never fond of being indebted to someone, in case of money. Not because he can't pay it back, but because it makes him feel awkward and out of place. He's told Grantaire this, once upon a time, after the fifth bottle of vodka and fourth bottle of scotch.

He's always been a good friend to Grantaire, a better lover for Feuilly, thinks Grantaire, and waves his hand dismissively.

"Consider your debt paid then. Unless I am to be dressed as a woman," Bahorel looks horrified even at the _idea_ of Grantaire being a woman, which, _excuse you_ , he looks fantastic as a woman. "Which I am not, apparently, then it is done."

Bahorel stares at him. "Did you just quote Daenerys on me?"

"Yes," replies Grantaire solemnly. "Yes I did, I just did."

-

While Grantaire doesn't really like being called a prostitute even if it's only in Enjolras' mind – and Grantaire _knows_ , okay, he knows that Enjolras thinks of it every time he sees Grantaire, it's written all over his stupidly perfect lovely god-like face – there are a lot of reasons as to why Enjolras does not cease to think of it that way.

For example, at today's meeting:

There's this new cute barista working at the Musain who's been stealing looks at Grantaire ever since the moment Grantaire walked in. Grantaire doesn't care as long as he's not bothering him or his Enjolras-looking-time. And his _I'm getting scolded by Enjolras again, yay *swoons*_ time. Combeferre is very amused by this whole thing.

Musichetta, apparently, doesn't get the memo. "Oh, honey," she says, lewd and loud, over Enjolras' own voice. "You can't afford that one even if you're the Queen of England. Or, you know, The King."

Enjolras falters mid-speech, and the new cute barista splutters and trips over his own feet. Grantaire sends a suggestive wink his way. "A thousand bucks a night if you want, _dahling_ ," he drawls, seductively, and looks at Enjolras' stunned constipated face. "Except for you. I'll take the thousand bucks off the table for every single night with you, if you want."

Someone that sounds suspiciously like Courfeyrac is choking on his drink, in the background. Good. "I'll even buy you dinner and blow you for dessert."

Enjolras flushes a thousand shades of red then promptly falls over the table.

Bahorel's laugh is booming and Eponine is clutching her stomach, rolling on the floor and laughing like a French version Harley Queen, only without the make up.

Grantaire would've taken his phone out to record them if he's not too busy sighing dreamily at Enjolras' embarrassed face, committing it to memory.

Courfeyrac is still choking on his drink.

He's still avoiding Enjolras.

So. Yeah. That's probably why. Grantaire won't be surprised if it is.

-

Because life hates Grantaire and has a deep, deep grudge against him for what his past-life has done in the past –

(Jehan told Grantaire once, very seriously, that Grantaire was a serial murder witch who ate babies for breakfast and sacrificed young innocent virgins for his gods. They were so very drunk, eleven bottles in because Montparnasse was being a total dick at the time, and so they were so very drunk.

Grantaire didn't remember much except agreeing to Jehan's every word and also believing it under the effect of the drink, but he does remember waking up to Montparnasse trying to shoot his dick for cuddling Jehan on the couch.)

– or loves Grantaire, maybe, if Grantaire is a masochistic asshole with a non-creepy obsession streak a mile long; Enjolras is also at the party that Bahorel's rich as fuck uncle is hosting tonight.

"Oh fuck," Bahorel says, at the sight of Enjolras. "Fuck, shit, fuck, sorry R, I didn't know he's going to be here, I swear to God I did not know Enjolras was going to be here. I didn't even know he knows my uncle. Shit. Please don't charge me double. Except. In this case. Please don't rob me off my money from the debit card you took within reasons."

"That's quite alright Bahorel," Grantaire says through a very sweet smile. "That's quite alright." Enjolras looks at him with this pinched expression on his face, like he's tasted something sour. The pit of Grantaire's stomach is filled with dread.

Enjolras avoids them like the plague the entire night to talk with pretty ladies and possibly arranges his marriage to the pretty one with black curly hair that seems to agree with everything he says. Grantaire digs his nails into Bahorel's arm as they charm Bahorel's uncle's associates with carefully chosen words, harder each time the pretty one leans closer into Enjolras' personal space.

Bahorel stares at him like he is looking at the face of god. Or, you know, Lucifer the Devil itself. That depends. His face suddenly turns very serene.

"You're going to spend all my cards on useless shit aren't you."

"Yes, I am." Grantaire says, and kisses his lips, murmuring apologies to a group of elderly that has surrounded them and leading Bahorel back toward his bedroom. Bahorel nods understandingly. "Tell Feuilly I love him. And that he can have whatever it is I have left after my death."

"After your card is spent, yes, I will."

-

Grantaire has a few rules or, in a more fancy term, _work etiquette_ that he has managed not breaking so far.

1: Do not drink five hours before a night-job that pays beyond a thousand bucks.

2: Do not drink three hours before a night-job that pays below a thousand bucks.

3: Do a background check on potential clients first before agreeing to escort them to a party. If there's any rumors on one of them being a rapist or a pedophile, then run the fuck away out of it.

4: Make sure to bring some blackmail materials in case one of his clients forces him to sleep with them.

5: Do not drink during a night-job. _Any_ categories; whether it's beyond a thousand bucks or below a thousand bucks, _do not drink during a job_.

6: Do not drink during a night-job. Unless he's with Courfeyrac, drinking is a total absolute must.

7: Do not drink during a night-job. Except when Enjolras is there, drink away.

8: Has he mentioned the no-drinking policy during a night-job?

9: Yes he has, yes he has.

10: He's a little bit drunk right now (Enjolras is still talking with that pretty girl with the black hair, so) but this doesn't count as a violation to the rules. Because. Enjolras is there. Grantaire notices.

He always does.

-

He doesn't end up spending the entire content of Bahorel's card on useless shit. Bahorel, despite his rough appearance and a sailor's mouth on him, is actually a very nice cuddly teddy bear inside. It's not his fault that Enjolras was there at the party, chatting away with some girl he's going to marry, which is something Grantaire is quite sure of but Feuilly skeptical about.

(Feuilly is also another reason why Grantaire doesn't follow through his plan on making Bahorel's life miserable.

To this day, Grantaire would've never known that you could kill someone with a paper, and a Poland flag, but apparently you can, so Grantaire keeps his mouth shut and tries not to shit in his pants or reach toward the nearest source of alcohol from fear.)

"No, you didn't see, the look on his face last night. It was nothing I've ever seen directed at everyone, not even at Combeferre or Courfeyrac, okay. And." He swallows, scrambles to get the bottle of wine into his mouth, tries to get the words out past the burning in his throat, "I think he finally lost the V card to that girl at the party," in one rushed breath.

Jehan, who is curled up around himself with Montparnasse's leather jacket draped across his back, perks up at the mention of the V card. "Come again?"

Feuilly is still looking at Grantaire like he's lost a brain cell during the party last night, possibly from Bahorel's fist or braining himself after seeing Enjolras clad in sexy tuxedo flirting with other women. "And you know this how?"

Grantaire sniffs, taking a larger gulp of the wine straight from the bottle. Jehan is staring at his mouth distractedly, shamelessly, and Grantaire is distracted because Jehan is distracted and what was the question? Oh, right. Enjolras and the woman.

"She was very pretty, Feuilly, with this nice perky breasts, covered modestly I'm telling you, with this hips and the aesthetically perfect feature that can melt your heart, with these eyes. Fucking hells, Feuilly, her eyes are the most beautiful thing, very French, they're very green."

Feuilly tilts his head. There's a large blossoming pair of hickeys on the newly exposed skin of his neck, below his earlobe, the size of Bahorel's teeth. "You mean to say rich."

Grantaire hums, distracted. "Her eyes are very rich. And. And Feuilly, there were a lot of fluttering eyelashes. And touching. She touched Enjolras a lot, Feuilly, and Enjolras didn't seem to mind. The last I saw them before leaving with your idiotic apparently stupidly rich boyfriend was her trying to convince Enjolras to leave with her into her room."

"And you know this how?" Feuilly repeats the question, more impatiently now, and Grantaire looks up at him from the fluffy red cushion he's been crying his heart onto.

It's the same cushion Jehan and Montparnasse used for sex, though, so he'll have to – see Joly, maybe, and detoxification for his face or make it sterile or whatever. He's not sure; Grantaire is very, very drunk right now. Feuilly looks very pretty, like Jehan, only a bit more red. He tells Feuilly so and Feuilly rolls his eyes, which is, _rude_.

"Focus on my question, Grantaire, I want to make sure if Enjolras just got raped or not."

Grantaire frowns again, harder. "What."

"The woman, Grantaire, come on." Feuilly presses, carding a hand through Grantaire's curls, but Grantaire is already panicking at the thought of Enjolras getting raped.

"Uh, she was flashing her key card? She was – giving it to Enjolras, so I thought –"

"Was Enjolras drunk?" Jehan asks, frowning as well. Jehan is so smart, he knows Grantaire's emotion so well.

"No, of course not. This is Enjolras we're talking about, he wasn't –"

"But you're _sure_ he left with her?" asks Feuilly. Too many questions, Grantaire's head is buzzing with their voices.

"Now that you mention it... he probably didn't? I'm not. I'm not sure? Why did you think Enjolras would get – that the woman would force him –"

"Because Enjolras is gay, Grantaire. Haven't you noticed?" Jehan explains, very slowly, like he's talking to a kindergarten children and not Grantaire. Grantaire is smart, Enjolras told him so, when they had their first lunch (with Courfeyrac) together.

"We know, R." Feuilly and Jehan say, at once, sighing at him like he's the most dense, stupidest person on earth.

Grantaire feels like he's missing something big as he drifts to sleep.

-

Grantaire's first party as an escort was with Montparnasse, in an exotic part of the city somewhere in Saudi Arabia. 

In the agency, Montparnasse is known as the cherry-popping client. Not because he sleeps with any of them after a job, although Grantaire did in fact sleep with him that first time, so did Jehan, but because he likes to see if they're capable of handling putting their prettiness to good use or not. 

One of the escorts voices her suspicion that Montparnasse might be the CEO of The Agency. Grantaire thinks Montparnasse _is_ The Agency. 

Yes, The Agency is perfectly capitalized for personal purposes. 

He's pondering whether or not this will make Jehan Mrs. Agency if they were to marry when something hard and heavy as fuck is dumped onto his table, and Grantaire looks up, startled, to find a gigantic white teddy bear staring down at him in its adorable glory. 

Enjolras' head peeks over one shoulder. Adorably. Grantaire literally swoons on spot and sighs dreamily like a character out of a fucking Disney princess movie. Jesus. Grantaire is Rapunzel and Snow White and Pocahontas. He is actually Pocahontas. Or Jasmine. He quite likes Jasmine. And Enjolras dressed in nothing but a vest, and a baggy pants, with dirt and smoke staining his face... 

Well hello, inappropriate public boner, you've been dearly missed. 

"Grantaire. Hi." Enjolras says, from where he is clutching the gigantic teddy bear, face pressed to its fluffy neck. "Uh. So you've been avoiding me. Right. And. Uh. I was kinda going to ask you to dinner, but. Apparently you've been avoiding me. So. Yeah." 

Grantaire stares at him, smiling. "Are you drunk?" he asks Enjolras, seriously. 

Enjolras' lips pursed. "No. I was googling the difference between an escort and prostitution, under Courfeyrac's order. And, surprisingly, Combeferre's." 

Grantaire nods. Waits for a beat. Nothing. 

"And?" he encourages, tilts his head. Enjolras flushes. 

"Um. There was a picture, with the dress –" 

"I'll wear it for you." Grantaire blurts out, quickly. "You don't even have to pay me. I mean. Like I said, not a sex worker. We can go to dinner? I'll give you some candle lights, if that's what you like. I will even cook for you if you want me to impress you. I'll do anything for you." 

Enjolras smiles an adorable shy little smile that has all of Grantaire's insides turning into a thick puddle of goo. "I was actually trying to impress you with the teddy bear and what it carries." His smile turns into a full-blown grin that blinds Grantaire temporarily. "I can show you if you'd like. We can go back to your place to get this off then we can get dinner. It's on me. And it's a date." 

Grantaire chokes on air, Enjolras' words ringing in his ears. "Oh my god. Did you do that on purpose, the innuendos, or are you trying to kill me?" Enjolras' grin doesn't even falter, as a matter of fact, it _brightens_. 

"Like I said: I'm trying to impress you today. Are we going?" 

Grantaire doesn't even hesitate to say, "Yes." 

Hours later, after a trip all over Paris and cheap Chinese for dinner, Enjolras drives Grantaire home and stays for a while because he wants to see Grantaire's reaction when they unzipped the teddy bear to reveal a complete DVD set of the original Star Trek and all Bond movies wrapped in red ribbons with a Batman card that says _'FOR GRANTAIRE'_ in big bold letters. 

They make themselves comfortable on the couch with a large bucket of extra butter popcorn on their lap, with Star Trek playing softly (Montparnasse is there if the boots by the door is any indication, with Jehan, already sleeping, possibly; Grantaire is not so mean he'd play it full-volume) on the TV, bickering about the wonders that is Uhura and the not-so-subtle gay subtext between Kirk and Spock. 

This, Grantaire thinks, as Enjolras smiles brightly at him in the darkness of the room, he will never trade this for anything even for a forty thousand dollars job a night. 

-


End file.
